


conversations in a jojamart, i

by Wedeck



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: And then talk to him for an hour, Banter, Fellas is it gay to bring a man a meal at 11pm, M/M, Spirit's Eve, While no one else is around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23279365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wedeck/pseuds/Wedeck
Summary: In which a local farmer brings the JojaMart customer service representative a little taste of autumn. [Morris/The Farmer OC]
Relationships: Morris/Farmer (Stardew Valley), Morris/Male Player (Stardew Valley)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	conversations in a jojamart, i

**Author's Note:**

> This Morris obsession is getting really out of hand.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for clicking! I hope you enjoy the piece.

_Hey! Lewis! How are you this evening?_

_Ack! Is that a mummy?_

_Gaaaaawr..._

He hears them. Dully, like waves breaking over each other on a distant shore, but he hears them. Villagers. Visitors. Pelican Town is alive with the sounds of a festival, and this time, the monsters are in on it too.

Spirit's Eve. In Zuzu City, the tradition had been expressed by children dressing up in costumes and going door to door to beg for candy; in a town with only two of them, he supposes, it only makes sense for things to be different. Here, the villagers push picnic tables together and drape pumpkin-patterned tablecloths over them, piling the communal eating space high with food and drink, products sourced — no doubt — directly by the local farmers. Here, blacksmiths and self-proclaimed wizards construct cages with iron bars, then populate them with moaning, shambling skeletons. Here, the mayor cordons off the east side of town, including the JojaMart, while sending Morris a smile that tries to look apologetic, but comes across as indifferent.

Morris has never been to a festival.

Not that it bothers him. Seven have already passed, and he's used them as catch-up opportunities more than anything, days on which business is guaranteed to be slow and time plentiful. Immediately after his arrival to the Valley, Mayor Lewis had attempted to convince him to attend the Festival of Ice, but Morris had declined. When he tried again — this time asking whether he'd be interested in giving someone a secret gift at the Feast of the Winter Star — and met with a similar response, the old man seemed to have gotten the message at last and dropped out, leaving Morris and his store to their own devices like a resigned parent.

_He's not one of us. He's not here to make friends._

He opens his eyes, and the din from the outside festivities gives way to the hum of electricity from the JojaMart's lighting panels, low and comforting. Visions of orange and lurking shadows disappear into the rectangular prism of sterile blue, every square inch of which is equally illuminated. He has work; he was calculating something before he dozed off. But what?

He returns his attention to the clipboard on the counter, chasing his previous train of thought through the numbers, piecing them together. Ah, yes. This season’s financial report, to be sent off to upper management no later than the first of Winter, the sooner the better. He scans the form before him, finds where he left off, and picks up his pen, glancing between it and the sprawling ledgers that have taken up the rest of his counter space. Placing the tip of the pen to paper, he references the ledger one last time to make sure he has the number right. Then—

Then the doors to the JojaMart slide open, and the sanctity of its blue walls is breached by airy singsong.

"Moooooorris! Good eve-ning!"

Of all the times... "Wegmann," he responds, much less musically. So much for work. As if to make some pitiful gesture toward productivity, he at least jots the number down before putting away his clipboard. Then he clasps his hands together and rests them atop the counter, leaning forward with his customer service smile plastered unabashedly across his face. "Good evening! Are you here to buy our membership at last?"

Wegmann laughs; Morris waves it away.

"It never hurts to ask."

"If I ever say yes to that," Wegmann says, placing the two covered plates in his hands on the counter, "you can alert the National Guard about potential body snatchers, because that’s not me."

He heads to the back rooms to fetch himself a foldable chair, as is his habit, but Morris barely notices. Instead, he focuses on the scents wafting out from beneath the lids of the covered plates, intermingling hints of creamed potato and corn, candied yam and cranberry, all grown in the Valley's backyard and prepared in the saloon kitchen. Acutely he becomes aware of what he'd had for "dinner" — half a frozen pizza, of the kind Shane liked to buy, that had come out of the microwave both piping hot and overly moist. Morris had not finished it.

His stomach gurgles loudly, and he's both suddenly aware of Wegmann's momentary absence and thankful for it. When the farmer returns, folded chair under his arm, and sets it up before the counter, Morris resists the immediate temptation to ask if the food is for him.

Wegmann sits. Not normally, as anybody else would, but backwards, so he can rest his arms on the chair's back or put his head down. For some reason, he's always sat this way in the JojaMart; it rather reminds Morris of a college student, the way they squirm in their seats as if to find the optimal blood flow for solving problems. He wonders if Wegmann sees him as a problem.

"Aren't you missing out on all the festivities?" he asks, once his companion settles.

Wegmann grins, letting his head sink onto his arms. "Nah. I did everything already."

"Did you?"

"Yep. Looked at some skeletons, bought some souvenirs, did the maze, and ate to my heart's content."

"Ah! A fun night, then. By your standards, anyway."

"More fun than yours?"

He points playfully at Morris's papers, and Morris smirks.

"I happen to enjoy working with numbers. I passed all of my accounting courses with flying colours."

"I've never heard a more miserable thing in my life," Wegmann counters brightly.

"How about knowing that some of us enjoy weeding?"

The farmer laughs again, and Morris leans back, satisfied.

"At any rate, you didn't come to purchase anything, your friends are all still outside—"

"I wouldn't say all of them."

"—or already at home, and you're parked in my store with no intention of moving. What brings you here?"

Wegmann smiles gently, but says nothing. Instead he turns his head to the plates he brought in, sitting on an area of the counter Morris's papers haven't yet touched.

Morris waits for an explanation. When none comes, he probes, "Is this for me?"

Wegmann turns back to him, smile curling into a grin, and nods. "For all your hard work."

 _Hard work_. Despite his extolling the virtues of being a Joja employee, Morris is caught off-guard by the phrase. Neither Pelican Town's villagers nor upper management have ever granted him those words, he realises now. He doubts his staff understand the extent of his responsibilities, and for that reason their ignorance was acceptable, but upon further reflection, he's only ever been told _good work_ by his superiors, as though they expected it all to be so easy.

But it _is_ easy — at least, easy to stomach in the grander scheme of things. There's no need to overthink this, he scolds himself. Whatever the card, he's been given a gift.

He uncovers one of the plates and is delighted to find that his nose was right: There, heaped in piles that spill into each other, are the creamed potatoes and candied yam, and corn on the cob, and a leg of golden turkey drizzled in gravy and cranberry sauce. It's a veritable autumn bounty, and as Wegmann hands him the utensils, he starts listing off who contributed what. The cranberries, corn, and potatoes are from his farm; the yams, from Pierre's garden. (Morris can't help but make a face at that — Wegmann laughs.) The turkey was the only thing that hadn't come from Pelican Town. _That_ was from a rancher in Grampleton who let them roam wild on his property, so that the birds had as much freedom as their humans did. On several occasions they had even terrorised visitors, one of which had been Gus himself.

All this, Morris listens to as he finishes off the plate. Even for his usual cheer, Wegmann seems to be in unusually high spirits, his face aglow like the town lampposts as he describes the process of growing cranberries. His energy is infectious, and soon enough, Morris can't help but be infected by his zeal, even when the topic isn't one he's interested in.

"Is Spirit's Eve your favourite holiday, Wegmann?" he asks once the farmer hits a break.

Wegmann tilts his head, first one way, then the other. Indecision is etched into his brow. "I don't know if I have a favourite, exactly," he says. "I like them all for different reasons. But this particular Spirit's Eve is nice. It's the first time I've gotten enough together to really help Gus with preparing. And seeing everyone enjoy the fruits of my labour, well... there's nothing like it. Don't you think?"

Morris nods. "I agree. —Excuse me."

He gets up to toss his plate and fork in the garbage, feeling Wegmann's eyes on him as he moves. It's not uncomfortable — he doesn't sense judgement, the way he often does from the others — but it does make the silence feel pregnant, as though there's a question on his tongue the farmer is unwilling to put into words.

Wait a moment, he thinks. There's _silence_. A quick glance through the window confirms it; in the time Wegmann spent talking to him, the festival has wound down, the cleanup crew of Lewis, the Wizard, the blacksmith, and Gus staying behind to disassemble the maze and haul off the pumpkins. If they have anything to say to each other, they're keeping it low-key, presumably to avoid waking the sleeping town. That's another Spirit's Eve over with, then — just one more day after this, and they'll hit winter in the Valley.

The question comes, softly.

"Why don't you go to the festivals?"

Morris reaches up and adjusts his glasses. "Why should I?"

They meet each other's gazes over the counter, Wegmann's countenance preternaturally still, Morris's in the nascent stages of smugness. The farmer is challenging him again, feeling for cracks in his ideology... or he should be, based on past experience. Still, if laying his chin on his arms is supposed to signal a battle-ready attitude, Morris doesn't see it.

"There's lots of reasons," he says. "You can play games or do things you couldn't do all year round. There's free food to eat, like what you had tonight. And..."

Morris suspects he knows how Wegmann is going to conclude his statement, but presses him anyway. "And?"

Wegmann gazes at him before tearing his eyes away. "You could make friends."

"I can't."

"It doesn't have to be this way."

"It _is_ this way. Wegmann, you of all people should know that."

"Aren't you lonely?"

"I haven't noticed."

"I guess you think you don't have the time for it. Maybe that works for your day to day, but aren't you afraid you'll wake up one morning and feel like your whole life has passed you by?"

Morris shakes his head. "Not everyone feels as though they've been recruited into this company against their will. You forget that. Besides, if you had the volume of work I do, you'd understand."

"Work or not, you're still a human being. I just... worry for you."

"Worry for me?" There it is again, the surprise he's not sure is a good or bad feeling. For the second time tonight, he buries it. "Ridiculous. You should worry for yourself first."

Wegmann's eyes widen, and Morris can see, with a touch of amusement, that the idea truly hasn't ever occurred to him. "What? Me?"

"There doesn't seem to be a day you're not running someone's errands for them. Where does _your_ train stop?"

The farmer raises his head, grips the back of his chair, and leans back. "Hmmmm..." he exhales. "I guess you're right."

"Still think I have to slow down and open up?"

"I'm starting to think both of us do."

Morris tuts and retakes his seat. By now even the cleanup has finished, and the cobbled streets are flickering and empty. Soon he'll have to close the JojaMart and catch the last night shuttle to Zuzu City, where he'll stagger into his condominium, crash for five hours, and get up to do the whole thing over again. As soon as Wegmann leaves, he'll toss the second plate into the refrigerator for tomorrow's lunch and reorganise his papers into their respective folders...

Wegmann leans forward again, this time to put his elbows on the counter — though, to his credit, he avoids doing so directly atop anything Morris was working on. "Hey, Morris..."

"Yes?"

The farmer doesn't say anything; he's just a little over a foot away, his head crooked at a slightly upward angle to compensate for the slope of his lean. This close, Morris can finally see the signs of exhaustion that mark his young face, the bags underneath his eyes, the drowsiness beginning to express itself in their drooping lids. He wants to make a comment — wants to tell Wegmann _he_ needs just as much shut-eye as he does — when at last, Wegmann moves, closing the distance between them by taking Morris's hand in his.

"It... makes me happy to see you eat something I made," he says. "I know I've dropped off food to you before, but I was always in a rush. I never got to see you actually taste things. But if you like what I make..." Something seems to reinvigorate him, and the drowsiness momentarily vanishes. "...you should come to the festivals. I can't make you, but — consider it."

Morris stares at him. Third time's the charm, he thinks — this time, the surprise is so complete, so sudden, he's been rendered speechless. This doesn't sound like a regular request. This sounds like... like...

The farmer lets go of his hand, starts to get up. "Well... that's all I had to say."

 _You said far more than what you think you did,_ Morris wants to say, but he holds his tongue. Is he aware, or did he, by any chance, not think the implications through before he spoke? "Are you sure?"

Wegmann blinks. "What do you mean?"

He has no clue, he's taken aback — the man is well and truly oblivious. For a moment, Morris debates letting Wegmann in on his own feelings, perhaps throwing in a jab about how he should thank him for forcing him to "slow down and open up" — but he doesn't. Wegmann has shown some interest in the women here; these feelings, as far as Morris can tell, may just be infatuation of the same kind, fleeting, brief.

Besides — and this is the more serious matter — it will simply never be. Not while the two of them are opposing forces, Morris on the side of the Joja Corporation, Wegmann on the side of the town. They could have worked together toward greater heights, propelling the industry and development of the Valley forward — but no. Within the farmer is a will harder than iridium, and although there are times ( _such as this_ ) that Morris laments his stubbornness, there's a part of him that has always, always admired it and would have it no other way.

He shrugs, deflecting Wegmann's question. "You seem tired. I wanted to make sure you left without forgetting anything."

At that, the farmer's expression relaxes, and he laughs. "I guess you'd understand better than anyone."

"The same goes for you, Wegmann."

"I'm good, though. Listen, enjoy your rest of the night. I'll bring something for you soon."

"I look forward to it. Good night!"

"Good night!"

The doors ping again as Wegmann exits the JojaMart, and Morris waits until his footsteps are just barely audible to rise. He watches as the farmer jogs through the town, his orange silhouette growing smaller and darker, before he rounds Gus's saloon and disappears from sight. He's not sure why he does — it's not as if monsters _do_ roam the town, even this late, even on a night like this — but he waits a little while longer, until everything seems quiet. Then he sits back down, in an empty JojaMart.

It's well past midnight, and he has work to do before he wakes up on the last day of Fall.


End file.
